The first time I went to a gay bar, I was drunk AF already. It was in Austin, and a group of friends and I hit up Dirty 6th on a MONDAY. A freakin’ MONDAY. But it was so much fun. After shenanigans and what not on 6th street, we didn’t want the night to end, so some friends suggested we go to Rain, a gay bar. When I’m drunk, I like to rap about what I see, so I rapped all the way there. Don’t really remember much, but there was a dance floor with flashing lights, cages that I somehow made my way in and danced like a stripper, and a guy with a backpack that tried to dance battle me, but I threw so much shade and blocked out that hater. Anyways, when I’m drunk, I also like to clean things, so I went to the back area where the bar and some tables and BEDS (WTF???) were and pretended like I worked there and asked people if they were done with their drinks. I would bring empty glasses back to the bar. And then it got worse. I went around, stumbling on my drunk ass, picking up cigarette trays because why does one small table for two need THREE cigarette trays? I began bringing those to the bar, stacked a tower of 8 trays, split them into 2 towers of 4, 1 ended up falling, and ash went EVERYWHERE. The bartender asked me what I was doing, and I told him I was helping him clean. I even had the courtesy to wipe the ash off the bar into a tray, but then I was apparently kicked out of the bar. The only way I knew I wasn’t allowed back in was one of my friends lost her watch, and we retraced our steps, came back to the gay bar, and the bouncer outside told me I wasn’t allowed back in. I was pissed on the outside but also drunk happy on the inside. And then I sent a drunk group text saying I was kicked out of a gay bar. #noregrets

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